Hamish
by MadDragon13
Summary: Hamish William Holmes-Watson is normal by no one's standards. Kind of a sequel to Deus Ex Machina, but can be read without. Established Johnlock, parentlock.
1. Age 0: Adoption

**A/N: So what I'm doing with this story is I'm going to make one chapter for each year of Hamish's life, up to age 15. Why am I stopping there? You'll find out. :) Enjoy! (Also I'm really proud of myself for remembering "pyjamas" instead of "pajamas" and slightly frustrated Mycroft Word says it's spelled wrong.)**

* * *

They had been married for nearly a year when the Doctor first broached the subject of adoption.

The question took them both aback. They hadn't really discussed the possibility of kids amongst themselves; both assuming the other didn't want them. And anyways, their hectic lifestyle was hardly a proper environment in which to raise a child.

John was quick to point this out to the Doctor. "You've seen the state of our flat. You've seen the body parts in the fridge, the experiments on the table. We can't possibly take care of a kid when we're running off to grisly crime scenes every other minute!"

"That's what you _think," _the Doctor responded. "What do you _want?"_

But at that point Lestrade called with an urgent case and they had to dash away.

The question was forgotten in the rush of adrenaline surrounding the investigation, but it began to niggle at John in the nighttime. He was never losing sleep, necessarily (whatever little sleep he got, with their erratic schedules), but he would contemplate it before drifting off or when waking up in the morning.

_What _do _I want? I've always thought and, yes, anticipated I'd grow up to have children, but then, I'd thought I'd grow up and marry a woman. With Sherlock…I don't know what to think._

He sighed and turned over. Sherlock made a little snuffly noise beside him. _Sherlock. Sherlock would never want kids. He can barely tolerate adults as it is, how would he cope with little children with a fraction of their intelligence? It'll never work. Baker Street is the worst place for children._

John rationalized this as his answer and allowed it to recede into the back of his mind. It went with an odd feeling of dejection.

Life passed as usual. Cases were solved. Criminals were apprehended. The occasional off-planet jaunt lightened the mood. The Doctor continued to be the only person, aside from John, Sherlock would socialize with. He took great pleasure in their long, broadening talks of quantum physics and the mechanics of timespace.

It was after a particularly grueling case – John was still sore from falling out that window, and Sherlock had broken his wrist – that Sherlock had decided John needed an impromptu date at Angelo's. Aside from Mrs. Hudson, the restaurant owner had had the most ecstatic reaction when the two had announced their relationship, and delighted in placing a single candle on the table as soon as they came in.

As they had just finished a case, Sherlock did not object to eating. His appetite had become a bit better since returning from his Absence, as they referred to it, half-starved and mentally and physically exhausted. John suspected he wasn't really hungry for a good portion of what he ate, but it was his way of apologizing for faking his death for two years. _I'm so sorry I worried you, I'll do my best to never cause you to worry again. _Not that Sherlock would ever say this out loud, of course.

The bell jingled noisily as a man and a little girl entered the restaurant. The girl was skipping happily, pulling the man along to the counter. "Ice cream, Daddy, you said we could get ice cream!"

The man laughed at the girl's eagerness. "I did say that, I also said you had to eat supper first, remember?"

"Ummmm," said the girl, pulling an exaggerated thinking face, "no. I think you probably said I could have as much ice cream as I want."

"I think I didn't."

"I think you did."

John felt himself grinning as he watched the two. Wouldn't it be nice…

_Nice to what?_

_Maybe…I don't know…_

A sudden, unbidden image burst into his mind. Him and Sherlock, holding the hands of a small dark-haired boy. The boy was grinning up at them, John was laughing, and Sherlock had a look of pride on his face similar to the one that appeared whenever John made an intelligent deduction of his own.

_I do…I do _want _kids._

Involuntarily, he glanced over at Sherlock. His brow was furrowed, thinking, and he radiated annoyance.

John's smile dropped abruptly. _But we simply can't have them._

However, the Doctor's next visit resulted in a rather unexpected turn of events.

Seated comfortably in his armchair, John listened appreciatively as the Doctor recounted his latest adventure. Of course, the Doctor, who was physically unable to sit still for a period of more than five seconds at a time, was waving his arms overdramatically about and leaping onto the couch whenever they reached a good part in the story. He would occasionally lapse into a different language John tentatively identified as German, at which point Sherlock would lean forward intently and absorb a private addition to the tale. John didn't mind. He was rather certain he wouldn't have understood it had it been in English, either.

" – when Roma shows up with the TARDIS and says that the rusalka was Maelin all along! So we took Maelin – poor thing – back to Kavité and Roma decided to stay with her." The Doctor slipped on the arm of the sofa and fell heavily into its cushioned softness, legs flailing lankily. "Say, John! Have you decided what you _want?"_

John's voice stumbled over the syllables, completely unprepared. "Have I – what?"

"Decided. You know. About adopting."

"I haven't really – _thought_ about it much, I mean – "

"Oh, tell the _truth! _Saves us all time."

John stopped and closed his eyes, marshaling his thoughts.

"Doctor – listen. While _I_ think it would be nice to adopt sometime, we simply can't. It would never work. Just…221B isn't a good place for kids. Kids who need caring, and attention, and a nice, stable environment to grow up in. And…and Sherlock won't ever want kids. Which is okay. It really doesn't matter. So I think it's time you dropped the subject."

The Doctor was silent for a while before asking quietly, "Sherlock? Do you want children?"

Sherlock, who had been staring with his arms curled around his legs, blushed wordlessly and buried his head in his knees.

John was speechless. He crossed over to Sherlock's chair and gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm – I'm sorry, Sherlock, how long have you…"

"For a rather long time actually," came the muffled reply.

"Well…why didn't you tell me? I felt the same, I just assumed…"

"Because _logically," _the detective shot back, head whipping up, "it's completely foolish! Do you have any idea how vulnerable this child would be to kidnapping, assassination, blackmail? It's for the best that the only people we are close to are capable of defending themselves, which entirely rules out any possibility of children in the future! And besides," his head drooped, temporary fury exhausted, "I'd make a terrible parent. You as good as said so yourself."

"Something I've found," interjected the Doctor softly, "is that those who doubt their own parenting skills have a higher chance of being improbably brilliant at it."

"How so."

"Well, you'll treat the baby as human, won't you? And not fall into that stereotypical realm of goo-goo-ga-ga baby talk. For a child of yours…I'd say that's a definite advantage."

"Yes, well, the question is still moot, isn't it?" John pointed out. "Like Sherlock said, this hypothetical kid wouldn't last a week without being kidnapped twice and held for ransom. I don't suppose you've got some magic solution you can just pull out of that box of yours?"

The Doctor mentally winced at how clichéd this was going to sound. "Actually, yes, I do."

"What – so, you're telling me, you've got a way of taking a human baby and making it – what? Invincible?"

"Well." The Doctor licked his lips. "If you're not opposed to having an extremely…remarkable child…there's a species called the Tenza. They are a species of alien with no home world. Instead, baby Tenza drift through space, looking for a couple that for whatever reason cannot have children. They then adapt their DNA to match that of their host family or species. Like a cuckoo bird, but they don't push the other chicks out of the nest, because there weren't any to push to begin with."

Sherlock leaned forward. "An alien?"

"Technically, yes. But, see, they mold their DNA so it's human. There are only two major differences between a human-Tenza and a real human; otherwise they're nearly indistinguishable. One, the Tenza will have some sort of tic – an irrational fear, a learning disorder, an odd physical behavior. And second – they always possess some form of strong psychic power."

"So – they'd be able to defend themself?" John supposed.

"Cor_rect!" _The Doctor bounced excitedly. "Now normally, a Tenza expends a huge amount of its power on altering the memories of its family to prevent either of them from realizing its identity, because it would cause chaos and one thing a Tenza fears horribly is losing the ones that love and protect it. But imagine – if one could be allowed to grow up _as a Tenza, _to be accepted for what it was, with its strangeness and brilliance and blossoming powers, to be taught to control them and use them, which most struggle with immensely – just _imagine!"_

"That would be…incredible," mused John.

"Now, it won't be easy," the Doctor cautioned. "Tenza are more likely to experience things like severe existential crises, depression, perfectionism, separation anxiety…sometimes they lose control of their abilities and someone gets hurt. It's sort of dangerous, living with a Tenza…but I think you could handle it. In fact, it's probably better than traditional adoption, for you. What do you want?"

_"Yes!"_ exclaimed Sherlock, leaping from his chair. "A thousand times yes, _yes, YES! _That is," he turned to John hurriedly, "if you want to?"

His partner could only grin with wordless joy. "When?"

* * *

John was awoken by a press of soft lips against his own. "John!" exclaimed Sherlock, and kissed him again. "John, wake up!" Kiss. "John, wake up, it's today!" Kiss, kiss.

His eyes blinked open. "I'm awake, you know."

"I know." Sherlock grinned. "Your breathing changed. Also, you started reciprocating. But I wanted to keep kissing you."

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pinned him to the bed in a long, deep kiss. "It's finally today. I can't believe it."

"Finally," Sherlock echoed.

"What time is it?"

"Two hours and forty-two minutes until we meet Hamish."

"Hamish William," corrected John.

"Hamish William Holmes-Watson. It's got a lovely ring to it, don't you think?" His voice shook ever so slightly.

John noticed this and pulled Sherlock into a crushing embrace. The detective was trembling against him. "Nervous?"

"Terrified."

"Me too."

Sherlock breathed out, slow and faintly unsteady. "So…Hamish William. He'll be genetically ours…"

"Have to be a boy, because the Tenza will combine our DNA," John continued.

Sherlock looked worried. "The Doctor said they haven't tried this before, with two males. What if something – "

"Shh, love." John soothingly stroked the side of Sherlock's face. "We said we wanted a remarkable child. And we will love him whatever form that remarkableness takes."

Sherlock smiled. "Let's take him to cases. Only the nonviolent ones, though. Like thefts."

"And no chasing criminals."

"Until he's at least three."

"The Doctor will stop by for weekly lessons in controlling his…whatever happens…"

"That's the part I'm most nervous about!" Sherlock burst out suddenly. "I don't understand psychic ability! It can't, by Earth physics, exist! I'm terrified this thinking will drag me into being a horrible parent! I'm terrified the temptation to _know _will plague me and plague me until I'm driven to _experiment _on him, I'm terrified he'll become just a lab rat to me and…John, have you read _Carrie_?! I don't want that to happen in real life!"

"Sherlock. Hey, Sherlock." John placed a calming hand under Sherlock's chin and tilted the tearstreaked face up to meet his eyes. "It won't. We don't believe the power is wrong. We're fascinated by it. You'll learn about it as Hamish learns about it. In a few years, it won't be this big mystery. It'll be everyday. And listen. I have faith in you. You won't be heartless. You know how I know that?"

Sherlock blinked.

"You're crying. You're so upset and afraid that you'll be some sort of unfeeling Dr. Frankenstein that you're _crying._ That isn't the mark of a monster, is it? And I've only seen you cry twice before now. You'll be brilliant, you hear me? Brilliant."

"Th-thank you."

Sherlock buried his face in John's chest. His breathing slowed to a hypnotizing tempo, and John could feel himself relaxing into the other man. They drifted into a peaceful, somnolent half-doze.

Until the silence was finally shattered by an unearthly, clanking wail that rent through the serenity like a bullet through glass.

John's eyes snapped open and he looked down at Sherlock, who gazed back with bright, shimmering eyes and wildly dilated pupils.

"He's here," Sherlock breathed. He violently threw off the covers and leaped out of bed. "He's here!" They scrambled out of the room, tripping over each other in an attempt to reach the source of the noise.

"Helllooo!" the Doctor beamed as they arrived in the kitchen, breathless and euphoric. "Ready to leave?"

"Let's go, let's _go!" _Sherlock demanded, bouncing up and down like an overexcited 5-year-old. (Which, John reflected with a grin, he sometimes was.) "Of course we're ready, let's _go!"_

"You're still in your pyjamas."

"Oh, _sod _it all, does it _matter?"_

"Were you even awake?"

_"Does it matter?"_

The Doctor laughed. "No, I suppose not today. Come on!"

And so they boarded the TARDIS. The Doctor pulled out his psychic paper and sonicked it, causing the texture to momentarily distort into a glimmering, plasma-like substance. "You two, put your fingers on here. It'll scan your DNA and send the data out to space along with an invitation for a Tenza to respond. Once one chooses you, it'll return the signal along with its coordinates so we can go pick it up. Here you are…" He held out the glowing paper and they tentatively pressed their fingers to its surface.

There was a brief flash of light, and Sherlock gasped faintly as he felt an ethereal tugging at his fingertip. Oilslick iridescence raced frenetically across the paper. A tinny voice of greeting smiled in his head and broke away.

"There we go," the Doctor said appreciatively. "Did you feel that? That was Hamish saying hi."

"That was – " John marveled, "I sort of – felt a little happy blob, in my chest – "

"You're lucky. Most Tenza families will never remember when their child first chose them. He should be sending me the coordinates any…" The paper's light suddenly doused and complex, interlocking circular designs bloomed across it.

The Doctor smiled. "Gallifreyan. You've got a smart one, Holmes-Watsons."

He whirled to the console and began drawing the circles with his finger on one of the many screens. "You can follow this, old girl. It's simple, right?"

The TARDIS wheezed to life happily and hardly quaked at all. The Doctor grinned and patted it encouragingly. "See? Easy."

A tense, restless silence permeated the room as they traveled. John stood by the door, bouncing nervously on his toes. Sherlock perched on the railing and swung his bare feet back and forth, glancing around but never settling his gaze.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked.

"I hope so."

"I think we are."

"Mmhm. Doctor, how long…?"

"Depends on when she wants to get there, but she's excited too so I'd say…" A small, vibrant chiming emanated from the controls. "…Now, in fact."

Sherlock's stomach jolted. He hopped off the railing and trotted quickly over to John, taking his face and kissing him briefly. John ran his fingers over Sherlock's arm before ending the kiss, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

"All right. You can go ahead and open the doors now," the Doctor called from the console. "Put your hands out – be ready to catch him as he forms."

_As he forms? _Sherlock frowned, suppressing another surge of anxiety, but tentatively opened the doors to reveal a stunning, starry canvas. He swallowed – it wasn't technically a _height, _but it still made him uneasy – and, along with John, held out his hands.

A vortex of revolving, indigo not-quite-light peeled away from the empty space and swirled viscously above their outstretched palms. Sherlock could feel it prodding, _tasting _at his DNA. His eyes unconsciously rebelled at something so alien and beautiful and he was forced to turn away – it hurt to look at. But he could feel it solidifying gently into a tiny, fragile form, feel a round, precious bulb growing against his whispered the word. _"Hamish."_

In unspoken unison, they brought their son back into the TARDIS. Sherlock's long, delicate fingers cupped his head, already sporting a few wispy black curls. Crystalline sapphire eyes blinked open as Hamish got his first glimpse of the strange universe around him.

"He's got your eyes," Sherlock murmured.

"Look, though. He'll grow up to have your hair."

Sherlock blinked a few more times than strictly necessary. "He's…amazing."

"Do…do you want to hold him?"

John was entrusting him with care of this tiny, momentous human being? _Him? _Sherlock's voice caught in his throat. "I can't – I don't know – "

"Here. Put your hand under his neck, like this, and support his body with your other arm. See?" John guided his awkward arms, positioning them so the baby nestled comfortably into Sherlock's chest.

_"Oh."_ Panic warred with joy. "Hello, Hamish."

Clear blue eyes regarded him with penetrating intensity. Sherlock couldn't tear himself away from the baby's bright, mesmerizing gaze. There was – no other word for it – a _spark _in those eyes. He hadn't seen this spark in anyone – not Lestrade, not any of the police force, not Mrs. Hudson, not even John. Wait –

Moriarty. There had been a _spark_ in his eyes, of course. But that was – twisted, more of a blaze of madness – he had seen this spark somewhere! But where…_the Doctor._

The Doctor's eyes sparked with wisdom, with understanding, raw intelligence, caring and love. And so did this baby's.

Hamish _saw._

And Hamish smiled.


	2. Age 1: Obvious

**A/N: Dedicated to lovelybrilliant IJustWantMoreKlaine! :)**

* * *

Hamish had been with them for a year, and almost nothing about him yet spoke of abnormality. He was growing at a healthy rate, although he did eat and sleep more than most babies, and hardly ever cried. He hadn't yet mastered the art of walking but seemed to take great pride in his ability to pull himself around by holding on to furniture. Despite John and Sherlock's constant observation, he had yet to show signs of any supernatural talents.

The strangest thing about him, and this could just have been his personality, was that he refused to make any sort of noise around other people. With the Doctor, John, or Sherlock he was a regular chatterbox, a fount of gibberish that had yet to transition into any real words. He held elaborate "conversations," trying out new blends of syllables while appearing to really listento what the other person was saying. However, when Mrs. Hudson watched him while her boys went out to solve a murder, or when he was strapped into John's baby carrier leaning over a crime scene, tiny brow furrowed, he was completely silent.

In Sherlock's opinion, it didn't help that the Yard were fixated on the child. After their initial shock and disbelief at seeing young Hamish completely at ease around ominous police tape and grim-faced officers, they had promptly moved to viewing Hamish as some sort of mascot and cooing and giggling at the baby in their midst. Sally Donovan had once tried to tickle him innocently under the chin. Hamish bit her.

"Watch this, would you? Let me know if it turns blue," Sherlock said, placing a petri dish of clear liquid on Hamish's high chair tray. He turned back to the chemical-stained kitchen table and carefully dropped a fragment of sulfur into a beaker full of faintly sizzling experiment.

There was a flash of light and yellow smoke billowed voluminously forth, causing Hamish's miniature safety goggles to fog up and sending him into a fit of giggles. "Daaugl sabey_uu _di flloooofff abaglle smeyyy!"

"Precisely," agreed Sherlock, coughing and attempting to wave the smoke away with his hands. "Let's keep this between ourselves, shall we? No need for your dad to know."

"No need for me to know what, exactly?" came John's voice from the stairwell.

Sherlock froze. "Back from the store early, John?"

"Bagfo mdaa sorrlee," Hamish murmured.

"Lestrade called, there's been a theft. Somebody's stolen a blue carbuncle from some French actress who's come up to London to film. What have you two been up to? If you've wrecked the kitchen again…"

"No! Nothing like that, no need to come in!" Sherlock frantically tried to clear the air, but the smoke hung in corners almost solidly and the smell of rotten eggs pervaded the flat. Hamish grinned and kicked his feet. "Baaoooo."

"Fascinating, I quite concur."

The baby's smile dropped. _"Nnnna. Boooo."_

Sherlock looked over. "Oh! Blue. Thank you, Hamish." He whirled around and scooped up the petri dish, careful not to spill the azure liquid on his hands.

John chose this moment to come through the door, arms laden with shopping bags. He took in the smoke, the abandoned experiment which had started bubbling over unobtrusively, and the lanky consulting detective standing immobile in the middle of the kitchen with the face of a schoolboy who's been caught placing a stinkbomb in the teacher's desk. He said nothing, only sighed and leveled a glare at Sherlock. After a moment of contorting his face, Hamish succeeded in replicating this glare.

John smirked at the boy scowling with such cherubic consternation. "We'll take care of this when we get back. Find the carrier, I'll get Hamish ready." He eased the baby out of his chair, lifting the goggles over his head and ruffling his short black curls.

Noticing a flash of pale, John leaned forward and frowned with confusion. The roots of Hamish's hair had turned light. He had heard of babies that changed their hair color as they grew – was Hamish going to end up sandy blond, like him?

"Coming, John?" Sherlock called.

"Yeah, 'course," John replied, and helped Sherlock buckle the baby into the carrier.

One short cab ride later, they arrived at the scene. Hamish tried out his new glare on anyone who approached. If Madame Morcar was disconcerted by the brusque detective with the baby strapped to his chest, she did a remarkable job of not showing it.

After briefly poking around Madame Morcar's hotel room, muttering to Hamish, who on occasion stood in for John/the skull, Sherlock straightened up and began rattling off his deductions.

"Obviously it could have only been stolen between the time frame of last Thursday and Sunday, and by someone who the hotel owners know but doesn't work here, or – ahah! The chief security guard has a twin! Or at least a brother close enough in appearance. You're looking for a James Ryder, visiting from Dublin but planning to return soon, decided to steal the jewel – what's funny, John?"

Hamish had a deep look of concentration on his face, determinedly mouthing the words as Sherlock said them. John covered his smirk. "Nothing. Continue."

"As I was saying, Ryder is most likely a kleptomaniac, but his brother is unaware of this. You'd best hurry up and catch him – he leaves England before tomorrow."

The Yard, of course, were used to these displays of genius, but this one was rather over the top, even for them. Anderson closed his mouth. "How – how did you – "

"Oh, you _can't _be serious, Anderson, even _you _could figure this one out. It's – "

Hamish's voice suddenly rang out, clear and distinct. _"Obvious!"_

There was a moment of absolute, stunned silence.

Then John began to giggle. It started small, but soon he was doubled over with laughter. Lestrade started chuckling, and the crime scene was quickly overcome with hysterics. Hamish perched in the middle of it all, beaming proudly at his chaos.

"He ever done that before?" gasped Lestrade, wiping a tear from his eye.

"Nooo, never!" giggled John, who had laughed so hard he had to sit down. "Think he wanted to make a performance of it!"

"Hamish, how long have you known how to do that, exactly?" Sherlock grinned.

Hamish kicked his feet, overcome with joy that his plan had gone correctly. "Obvious."


	3. Age 2: Pressure

The first time Hamish was kidnapped, he was two years old.

The Holmes-Watsons had done a frankly remarkable job of protecting him for the first years of his life. They kept strict tabs on him – they let him explore and wander, of course, but not without knowing where he was at all times. Sherlock had, in all seriousness, explained to him why what they were doing was necessary, and Hamish had understood. It was quickly becoming apparent that he knew much more than he let on.

But they had slipped up – just once, that was all it took – and now Hamish was gone.

And both John and Sherlock were on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

It had been two days since they had returned from a case at half past three in the morning, to find Mrs. Hudson dozing in John's chair and no toddler to be seen. The kidnappers had left a simple, generic note in their wake. _We have your child. Do not involve the police. Do not attempt to find us. We will know. Wait to be contacted. _

And so, because it was possible that the kidnappers were bluffing and had no way of knowing whether or not they had gone to the police, but Hamish's safety was too important to risk, they did nothing.

Well, not nothing. Sherlock had run himself raw analyzing and overanalyzing that note, poring over it at the kitchen table for hours, but there were no clues to be found. It could have been typed and printed from any computer, no fingerprints, no watermark, no distinguishing features whatsoever, but for its message of earthshattering terror on the front. John's unspoken role was to fend off concerned queries and invitations to cases with the excuse that Hamish was sick, probably contagious, and that he and Sherlock might have caught it as well, so best stay away. Neither of them had left the flat. Sherlock had not eaten or slept at all. John may have. He wasn't sure.

It was nearing midnight on the second day when John stopped pacing – a recently acquired hobby of his – and entered the kitchen to find Sherlock slumped over at the table, fast asleep, face pressed into the kidnappers' note. He crossed the room and placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective jerked awake. "What?! What's happening?! Hamish?! John, what happened!?"

"Nothing. Nothing's happened." He rubbed Sherlock's shoulder soothingly. "Calm down."

Sherlock's impeccable, dignified façade was falling apart. His curls were scruffy, his purple shirt was rumpled and askew, and he had acquired dark bags under his eyes. John knew he didn't look much better.

He moved his hands to grip Sherlock's upper arms, gently pulling him into a standing position, where he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around the detective's lanky form and buried his head in his chest. "We'll find him," he murmured, feeling Sherlock's arms reach up to encircle him from behind. "We'll get him back."

"But – but what if we – "

"Stop!" John's voice cracked and he felt a wet spot forming beneath him on Sherlock's shirt. "We will. We have to."

Another day passed with no word from the kidnappers. John had fallen into a kind of sleepless torpor on the couch. Sherlock continued to work feverishly, fueled by a horrible realization that if something happened to Hamish, it would be his fault, because he hadn't done enough, hadn't done a good job looking after him, hadn't found the criminals _(you call yourself a detective you can't even track down your own child's kidnappers), _he had failed, he had failed –

Sherlock shook himself out of his daze of fear and self-loathing to find the paper sample at which he'd been staring unseeingly dotted with tears. He angrily wiped at his face and returned to work.

John knew what Sherlock was going through wasn't healthy. If he kept pushing himself like this, it would reach the point where he truly couldn't make any more progress on finding out who had taken Hamish – and that might trigger a nervous breakdown. He seemed to believe that it was his fault Hamish was gone, and was working himself so hard as a combination of anxiety, stress and self-punishment. With an immense amount of willpower, he forced himself to his feet, ready to shake his husband out of this destructive state of mind before it was too late.

Suddenly a deafening _crash _arosefrom the kitchen as Sherlock's chair clattered to the floor. _"John!" _he called, voice high and desperate.

Adrenaline sizzled through John's system as he bolted over to him. Sherlock had had the laptop open beside him, just in case Hamish's captors decided to contact them that way, was it possible that –

_Yes it was. Oh Hamish…_

Sherlock was staring, shaking and white, at a video feed of surprising quality depicting a man with a ski mask and a large knife. The man wasn't what John's attention was drawn and fixed to, though. Little Hamish – _their _Hamish – was taking up most of the left half of the picture, tied securely to a nondescript wooden chair, dwarfed by its adult-sized back. His deep blue eyes were blinking fast and his small fists were clenching and unclenching. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it and pressed his lips together.

"_Hamish," _Sherlock breathed. John wondered how he could manage to speak at all.

"Yes, as you may have noticed, I have your son," the kidnapper rumbled cheerfully. "I expect you know how this will go. You'll do exactly as I say, or…" He brandished the knife and grinned. "Let's just say it won't be fun for your little guy here."

"_If you dare touch a single hair on his head – !" _ John roared, finding his voice all of a sudden. Hamish flinched and whimpered.

"Dad, it's _wrong – "_

John froze. Now that he could talk, Hamish _always_ finished sentences properly. "What's wrong?"

"Shut it, you," said the kidnapper.

"No, my head, in my head, it – _ah –"_

"What's wrong with your head?" Sherlock's worried voice swelled with anger. _"What have you done to him?!"_

"Nothing, I swear, I don't know what he's trying to pull!"

Hamish's breath was coming in short gasps, and his eyes were squinted shut. "He's not trying to _pull _anything!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Can't you see there's something _really wrong!"_

"Hamish, you know I'm a doctor. What exactly is happening to your head?" John asked levelly.

"It's – there's _pushing _–" Hamish struggled for words. "In my head, there's _pushing, out – _and it's getting _hot – "_

This wasn't working. His head _hurt. _It had started hurting as soon as he had woken up. He had noticed he couldn't move and it smelled like damp. And the ache had started. Between his eyes. It was bad. And heat was growing and – why couldn't it leave? It was messing with his mind. He couldn't find words. And it was hard to talk. He wanted to curl up and make tiny whimpering noises until it went away.

But.

He.

Couldn't.

And the pushing – the – the _pressure, _the word emerged fuzzily from the throbbing recesses of his mind – wanted out. Wanted out badly. It would burn through his skull, wouldn't it?

He tried to convey this to his parents. _Father. Dad. _He couldn't quite pronounce _father _yet. Dad was doing his best. But he was an alien. Not human doctor couldn't. Where did that come from? That was no sentence. He tried to tell them. Nothing came out.

They were saying something. He couldn't hear. His pressure was not letting him.

The kidnapper was confused. Good for him.

Did humans have this pressure?

No. Dad was confused. He would have known. So it must be an alien thing.

_Tenza._

_It's my head._

_It's _my_ head. _

_My head. _

_So I can do what I want._

_Because it's my head._

_I want it out._

Hamish thought about pushing the pressure. He could. It was in his head. There were no rules in his head.

He forced a hole through the pushing.

There was a dull _boom_, nearly drowned out by the colossal roaring in Hamish's ears as all the pressure exploded out of him in a rush. His vision blurred. The kidnapper was gone. So was the computer that his dads were on. And the pressure. The heat too. That was nice.

His head was clear.

He giggled.

(It was kind of funny. He had just made that big kidnapper, the scary one, he had made him scared…and gone. Bye-bye! As the idiots (a word he learned from Father) said when pretending he was a normal baby.)

Hamish blinked a few times. He was tired. More than tired, he could barely…keep…his eyes…

And half an hour later, after the Holmes-Watsons had lost the video feed in a blur of explosion, after they panicked and called Mycroft and after he managed to track the signal to one of the many abandoned warehouses flanking the Thames, after a police force burst in prepared to face a whole horde of kidnappers, that's how they found him. Sleeping peacefully, his head resting on his chest, and the solitary kidnapper through two walls and covered in second-degree burns.


	4. Age 3: Psyke

_Vuuooorrp – vuooorp – vuuoooorrrpp –_

One lovely spring day, the TARDIS materialized in the kitchen of 221B. The wind swirling around it blew case notes off the crowded table and caused the test tubes and beakers to clink and rattle.

Hamish's book dropped to the floor and he scurried to the kitchen before the TARDIS fully solidified. _"Doctor!"_

"Hel-_lo, _Hamish!" The Doctor laughed as Hamish wrapped his small arms around his legs in a hug. The boy was quite fond of physical contact, but only if he initiated it. Otherwise he was liable to bite.

"Today is April 10th. You were here a week ago, and I can read!" Hamish exclaimed excitedly.

"You can read?! When did that happen?" the Doctor responded playfully, ruffling Hamish's thick curly hair. The blond roots had grown out and now the first inch or so was fair – the rest was still jet-black. It made for an interesting contrast.

"I first started being able to three months ago, when I was still two. But I wasn't very good at it, so I waited to tell you. And I don't like reading out loud. But I can do it in my head."

"Must be pretty fun in there."

"Yeah, I have a castle. It's small. It's not as big as Father's palace."

"Well, you're three. It'll grow."

"Morning, Doctor," said John, poking his head into the kitchen. "Sherlock's solving the White case at the moment, so he's unavailable to the world."

"I see." The Doctor's voice lowered suddenly. "Say, have you made any progress on...you know… the organization?"

"No. The kidnapper used 'we' pronouns but he was the only one, so it's more likely that he's part of an organization, but he might be bluffing, we don't know. How were your travels?"

"Oh, lovely, they were fine. Now, what's this I hear about your son reading?"

John smiled down at Hamish. "That's how we woke up yesterday morning. He climbed his way up into our bed, said that he had been able to for a while, and asked if we'd like for him to prove it. Then he read out a page of _Treasure Island._"

"I don't like reading out loud," Hamish reiterated.

"Perfectly fine. I can do it much faster in my head," said the Doctor. "What books do you like to read?"

"Um, I like pirate books…and books that tell you how something works…and Father's case notes. I don't understand those sometimes, but they're the most fun."

"I'll bet they are. How's your psyke going?"

"It's good! It's really good! Come here, watch." Hamish pulled the Doctor impatiently to the living room and plopped himself down in front of a large, green picture book entitled _Our Brains._

After the rescue six months ago, 221B had started to seem haunted. Lamps flew, clutter danced, and the skull had ended up on top of the refrigerator. It was soon determined that this was no ghost, but instead their Tenza.

Hamish's abilities had suddenly manifested in the form of powerful psychokinesis – nicknamed "psyke" to be easier on the little boy's untrained vocal cords. The Doctor stopped by for weekly lessons in controlling the psyke and teaching him how best to use it. Despite this, they had in no way reached the intensity of the power demonstrated in the warehouse on the Thames, nor had Hamish ever managed to produce heat or fire.

"Tenza abilities grow when they're in danger or under pressure," the Doctor had assured him. "It's perfectly normal. Just concentrate on controlling it, and the power you can use at will is only going to increase."

And he was right. What had once been sporadic, slightly menacing, occasionally dangerous instances of flying household objects gradually became a small but impressive display of perfectly controlled psychic power, growing every day.

Hamish stared at the detailed yet cartoonish diagram of a brain on the front cover of the book. His fingers dug into his knees as he concentrated fiercely. The book rose a few feet above the ground, cracked open, and turned to a page describing sleep cycles.

"This is where I was before you came," Hamish announced proudly, setting the book down. "I wasn't holding it with my psyke though."

"Now _that _is _impressive," _said the Doctor appreciatively. "I've got an idea. What if you put your hands in a different position, one that you're more comfortable with? It helps some psychokinetics to move their hands as they use their power."

Hamish considered for a moment, shifted his glance to Sherlock, lying prone on the couch, and placed his hands together under his chin. The book rose much more readily into the air.

John stifled a laugh. Hamish maneuvered the book over to the couch and dropped it on Sherlock's stomach.

"Look, Father," he said as John and the Doctor dissolved helplessly into giggles. He levitated the book into the air as Sherlock sat up and smirked at his hand position. "The thinking-hands help me think too!"

Thus followed an entertaining half-hour or so of Hamish chasing people with the book and occasionally other household objects, giggling maniacally from his stationary seat on the couch, only to be cut short by a loud growling issuing from his stomach.

The book flopped limply to the floor and Billy the skull returned to his usual perch as Hamish was overtaken by a huge yawn. "I'm _huuuunnnngry." _He swayed sleepily.

The Doctor swooped forward and caught the Tenza, who seemed unable to remain standing on his own. "Psychokinesis will do that to your energy levels."

"Daddy said I had a fast metabolism," Hamish murmured.

"Yep, and it'll only get faster the more you use psyke. Protein, that's what you need, and something sweet to replenish that blood sugar…I know just the thing…"

Five minutes later, Hamish had been introduced to the wonders of fish fingers and custard.


	5. Age 4: Stories

**A/N: GAH YOU GUYS I'M SO SORRY. School's been getting in the way of writing and it might slow down how fast I update, in fact probably will. Anyway here you go, apologies again :)**

* * *

"Go ahead and climb into bed, Hamish, we'll be up to tuck you in in a minute."

Hamish nodded and padded out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his bedroom. It was painted a light blue that somehow matched the color of his favorite footie pyjamas. He wasn't quite sure how this had happened, as the paint was some years older than the PJs. The Doctor was probably involved, which was usually the case.

He selected a book and scrambled into bed, shoving a path through the piles of toys, books and stuffed animals heaped upon it. He located Cassie Bee, who doubled as a pillow, and his Aslan quickly, but Little Smaug the Tremendous had hidden in the bottom of a towering pile of stuffed toys and wouldn't come out without taking the whole heap with him. Hamish found Little Smaug's tail and pulled, very gingerly, with psyke until four muffled thumps indicated collateral damage and the plush dragon was free.

He peeked over the edge of the bed to inspect the casualties. Charles Wallace, That One, Flea and Blue had all suffered falls. Oh well. They could stay. He was too tired to move them up.

Hamish was quite possibly the only four-year-old in London that enjoyed bedtime. He also slept easily and hardly ever had nightmares, despite the three kidnappings he had experienced within the past few years. He was starting to become annoyed with them. Next time he would convince his captors that the place they were keeping him was haunted. Wouldn't that be fun.

There were three main reasons why Hamish liked bedtime. One was that he was simply more tired more often than other children. Using psyke burned a lot of energy, so Hamish required more food and sleep to function. He ate approximately half again as much as other toddlers and required at least eleven hours of sleep a night.

The second was his haven (he had found the word in one of Dad's books). It meant a quiet, peaceful place where he could be, and it also meant his bedroom. He practiced psyke here, mostly with stuffed animals, and liked to pile all of them on top of him before he went to sleep. His closest friends and allies were his Aslan, who protected him from orcs and white witches and helped him focus his psyke, Cassie Bee, who he talked to for hours on end and was brilliantly snuggly, and Little Smaug the Tremendous, whose pointy bits were great for chewing.

Hamish heard Father's footsteps on the stairs and smiled.

And then there were stories.

Father entered the room, kicked off his shoes, and took up his customary place at the end of Hamish's bed, knees up and back resting against the backboard. He smiled at Hamish, who wriggled impatiently.

"Good evening, Hamish. What shall we discuss tonight?"

Hamish's brain flickered excitedly over the possibilities – _observation, deduction, challenging books, intelligence, science – _for less than a second before settling on a choice. "A story. Tell me one of your stories."

"Double stories for you tonight, then? Let me think…" Father placed his hands together briefly under his chin. "Here we go.

"This takes place quite a few years ago, before Dad and I are together. And, it's been a while since anything really _good _has come up to do, so I'm going utterly _mad. _So I check the website. _Nothing_. Except, one little girl's _rabbit's_ gone missing. This rabbit, christened 'Bluebell,' was reported to be _glowing – 'like a fairy,' _according to little Kirsty – shortly before its mysterious disappearance."

Hamish giggled. "Like a _fairy?_ Those aren't on Earth. Most of the time."

"Yes, but I highly doubt she was as seasoned a space traveler as you. Now remember that; ridiculous as it may seem, it's important."

Hamish nodded. "Rabbit, Bluebell, glowing."

"Excellent. As it happens, just in time to deliver me from my slow, agonizing descent into madness, the doorbell rings. And this, my dear Hamish, is where it gets interesting.

"This client's name is Henry Knight. Obviously just come up to London, and in a hurry. His father was murdered twenty years ago, at Dartmoor, which also happens to be the location of Baskerville. That's a top-secret biological and chemical weapons laboratory. Lovely place. I'll take you sometime, if Mycroft allows it."

"I'll remember to put it on my birthday list."

"Do that. Back to the story. According to Mr. Knight, his father was murdered in Dewer's Hollow, that's a sort of local landmark. He describes his father's attacker as 'huge, coal-black, with glowing red eyes,' any deductions?"

"Um, a big dog? Or a wolf, or what if– genetic experiment! Loose from Baskerville?"

Father smiled. "My thoughts exactly. Anyway, on the advice of his therapist, our Mr. Knight had returned to Dewer's Hollow, to 'confront his demons' or some such psychological gibberish, just the night before his flight to London – "

Hamish sat bolt upright with the force of a new revelation. "That's why he'd come here now, after 20 years! Something happened – something that made him think – he hadn't made it up, the hound, because that's what the therapist will have said – and of course he can't go to her, nobody would take him seriously – _except – !"_

Father bounced to his knees, leaning forward and beaming ecstatically, caught up in the thrill of sharing his deductions. "Brilliant! Fantastic! That is _precisely _what happened! What do you think it was, that he found out there on the moor? What could be concrete enough to warrant a visit to London, but not concrete enough to provide infallible proof to the monster's existence, thus rendering our services unnecessary? Will you walk me through your thought process? Just for fun."

Hamish closed his eyes. "Um…Not a body, or a live monster, that would be too simple. And not a vision, only sight with no other signs, or a howling or other noise, those would be taken as hallucinations. Taste, touch and smell evidence – "

"Gustatory, tactile, olfactory," Father interjected quietly.

"Thanks. Those are unlikely. If he had met another person who had met the beast, they would have probably accompanied him to London, or he at least would have mentioned them. So, I think some sort of physical evidence – maybe tracks, tufts of hair, blood?"

"Right little genius you are. I'll leave you with his parting words, shall I? It's getting late."

"Oh, but _Father – "_

"This is what he saw, and I quote. He said, 'Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a _gigantic hound.'" _Father slid off the bed and to his feet. "Now, what's wrong with that sentence? I'll let you puzzle it over. Goodnight, Hamish."

He was halfway out the door before Hamish shouted out. "Wait!"

Father's head cocked back around. "Yes? You have a theory?"

Hamish frowned in thought. "Nobody uses the word 'hound' anymore…"

Father gave an enigmatic half-smile and closed the door.

Hamish fell back on his bed, mind humming. Half-formed, wordless ideas and possibilities fluttered in and out of his line of consciousness. _What if – why – hound – therapist – murder – accident? – if he – 20 years – train – _His heartbeat increased as he ran faster and faster through his mind castle, no, _flew,_ pulling new information and old disguised as new and new formed by old and mixtures of both to him like a magnet – _file: Dewer's Hollow – file: Genetics – file: Security – slow down – slow down – _

It was useless. His mind was being deluged with ideas, unstoppably, irrepressibly, exhilaratingly. He needed to ride the flow like a wave, let it carry him along to the solution, or at least as close as he could get with the information he had, he was floating, he was _flying – oh dear – _

The sudden dimness in the room brought Hamish's attention quickly back to the outside world. Dad had flicked off the light, and now the powder-blue walls were lit only by the soft, yellow glow of the bedside lamp.

"Hey," said Dad softly. "You still awake?"

Hamish opened his eyes and used a bit of his manic energy to float _Prince Caspian _up into Dad's hands. "My brain won't calm down."

Dad took the book and sat next to him on the bed. "Can I help with that?"

"Do the voices," Hamish urged, gathering his Aslan, Cassie Bee, and Little Smaug the Tremendous into his arms. "We're on Chapter 14."

"Right." Dad cleared his throat before beginning. "Chapter 14: How All were Very Busy."

Hamish closed his eyes and snuggled his face into Cassie Bee, letting the words wash over him. Father's stories stimulated and exercised his brain, stretching his small deductive muscles and forcing him to think. But Dad's stories…with Dad's stories he was at Hogwarts, in Middle Earth, in Narnia, anywhere he chose. He could feel his mind begin to settle into the soothing rhythm of Dad's voice, feel the overwhelming torrent of information flow away and settle itself gently into a deep corner of the castle (which looked a bit like Cair Paravel), ready to spring forth when it was needed, and not before. b

And that is the third reason Hamish William Holmes-Watson loved bedtime.


	6. Age 5: Alouette

**A/N: So I know I said I won't be updating as much, which is true, I still have busloads of homework, but this just sort of…happened. The plot bunny ambushed me out of pretty much nowhere and I couldn't let it get away. It was like the Killer Rabbit from Monty Python of plot bunnies. Have fun and tell me what you think! :)**

* * *

_Do we really need this much jam?_

Sherlock's nose wrinkled as he eyed the list in his hand. One strawberry, one blackcurrant, one of your choice, one for experimentation if necessary. He didn't want to choose a jam. Jam was arbitrary. If Hamish were here, he'd choose something new and exotic, and save Sherlock the tedium. But Sherlock had entrusted Hamish with the (admittedly, far more important) task of following John around the store with a secret list of experiment components to put in the cart when John wasn't looking. Hamish, for some reason, was more adept at this than Sherlock, and much better at talking John out of replacing the items if caught. Sherlock huffed with impatience and ran his fingers over the store's unreasonably immense selection of jam. Eventually he settled on a simple gooseberry.

Footsteps in the aisle behind him, slowing to a stop. He tensed slightly, hoping this wouldn't lead to social interaction. Going to the store in the first place was bad enough.

"Sherlock! Fancy meeting you here!"

Sherlock almost dropped the jam, just to spite the universe. He knew that voice.

"Doctor Graber," he said levelly, turning around with his best glare-that-wasn't-quite-glary-enough-to-be-socially-unnacceptable. "Long time, no see."

"Eight years, hasn't it been?" The man offered Sherlock a toothy grin and a warm handshake, neither of which Sherlock appreciated. "My, time does fly, doesn't it? How have you been, then? Keeping busy, I hope? Taking your meds?"

"If I recall correctly, you are no longer being paid for your services as therapist."

"Hey, buddy, I just want to know how you're doing. Have you gotten over that 'detective' phase yet?"

Sherlock no longer cared whether it was socially acceptable and glared with a passion.

"Come on, Sherlock, it's just small talk. There's no need to behave like that. If you can't learn to talk to people, how do you ever expect to get a girlfriend?"

That was nearly the last straw. Anger bubbled darkly inside him, making him feel sick to his stomach. He swallowed, fists clenching at his sides, wanting nothing more than to punch that condescending smirk off the man's face. He needed to leave, to get out of this situation, but he couldn't. Not without Graber trailing behind like a mosquito, spouting vaguely good-intentioned advice and diagnoses, along with halfheartedly veiled jabs at his mental health and future prospects. How this man had ever received his degree, Sherlock hadn't the faintest. He deposited the jam roughly into the basket, feeling trapped.

Then, from a few aisles over, a faint song came drifting to Sherlock's ears.

"Liiiiittle skylark, gentle little skyyy-laaaark…"

Graber may be able to intimidate one genius, stranded out of his element and surrounded by the treacherous jam. But how might he fare against two?

"Liiiitle skyy-lark, I'll pluck your feathers off."

Graber looked around for the source of the melody. "What a morbid song!" His eyebrows twitched, as if already psychoanalyzing the singer in his head. "And to the tune of Alouette – you know, the children's song?"

"I'll pluck the feathers off your head, I'll pluck the feathers off your head…"

The sound was growing closer. Graber twitched again. "If that was my child, I'd make them stop singing such a horrible little song – am I right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing. On the one hand, he would prefer to minimize exposure to Graber as much as physically possible. On the other, he was rather curious as to how this would turn out.

"And your head! And your head! La la la l – oh."

Hamish froze in the entrance of the aisle, then shot forward and pressed himself shyly into Sherlock's coat.

Doctor Graber resembled a fish.

"Did you translate that yourself?" asked Sherlock softly.

Hamish nodded, still clutching the coat, staring wide-eyed at the catatonic psychiatrist. "Did I do it right?"

"It was flawless. You even got it to fit the song."

Hamish smiled. "I wasn't sure about _je te plumerai__, _but it's future tense, right?"

"_Futur simple__. _Simple future."

"Oh. Good. Daddy won't let me get dry ice."

Doctor Graber ceased impersonating a grouper and bent down to greet Hamish, who shied away at this invasion of personal space. "Hey there, little man. What's your name?"

Hamish opened his mouth, closed it, and turned his face pleadingly up towards his father.

"This is Hamish." Sherlock lifted his chin, somewhat defiantly. "My son."

Graber actually took a step back. _God, _Sherlock loathed him. "Problem?"

"Sherlock – " Graber let out a rather exasperated breath. "You are a _sociopath. _And sociopaths and children – why did you think it was a good idea to mix the two?"

Hamish's hands began to drift upward, towards prayer position. Sherlock grabbed them hastily. Repulsive and idiotic as this man was, by no means did they need a sudden and in all probability violent display of psyke. Hamish returned his hands to holding onto Sherlock's coat and settled for a barely audible "I don't like you."

Graber bent down again, his face painfully close to Hamish's. He probably thought such nearness was comforting, somehow. Sherlock wondered dimly what pathetic excuse for a school he had graduated out of. Hamish flinched away, burying his head in Sherlock's coat. Sherlock leaned almost imperceptibly towards the shelves and placed a hand on Hamish's shoulder.

If Graber noticed this, he ignored it in favor of extending a hand toward Hamish's face. Sherlock's eyebrow twitched up. _This will not end well._

"Whyever not, little guy? Hamish? I'm a friend of your dad's, don't you want to come and say hi?" Graber attempted to ruffle Hamish's hair, fondly.

And Hamish sunk his teeth into the doctor's finger.

Graber yanked away, aghast, and inspected the wounded digit. Luckily, Hamish hadn't drawn blood. (He had been known to, but only in truly dangerous situations.)

He shook his head, sadly, patronizingly. "I feel sorry for your child, Sherlock. What must the situation be like at home – to warrant this sort of behavior out in public?"

Sherlock stopped giggling. It had ceased to be funny. If Hamish's hands went up again, he wouldn't stop them.

Suddenly, John appeared from around the corner, slightly out of breath. "Sherl, have you seen Hamish, I can't find him anywh – oh, hello. Am I interrupting something?"

"Please disturb," said Sherlock.

John nodded. The phrase from an early case had become a sort of code for "rescue me from this social situation before I die or kill someone." He picked up Hamish and set him in the cart before addressing Graber. "Doctor John Holmes-Watson. Pleasure."

_"Non, il n'est pas," _said Hamish from the cart. Sherlock snorted quietly. _No, it isn't._

"Doctor Alex Graber," the man replied, accepting the proffered handshake. "Friend of Sherlock's."

"Friend?"

"Therapist," responded Sherlock and Hamish in unison.

And John understood, in one of his rare moments of startling lucidity. His body language changed subtly, as if he had just became aware of the hostility of his current situation, and his fingers snaked into Sherlock's. "Think we're about done here, love, don't you?"

"Hamish said you wouldn't get dry ice," said Sherlock by way of response.

"We've already got enough volatile chemicals in the flat just waiting to be trodden in as it is, we're not adding dry ice on top of all that."

"But…it's for a case, John!"

"No, it's not, you finished your last case this morning."

"I could always teach Hamish to shoot the wall."

John laughed and hopped up on his toes to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "You won't. Let's go home."

"Fine," said Sherlock.

"Fine," said Hamish.

"Fine," said John.

And so they did.

Eventually, Doctor Graber did manage to pick his jaw up off the floor.


	7. Age 6: Dance

Lestrade paced the crime scene and resisted the urge to kick something.

He gave up, took out his fury on a wall, leaned against said wall, and rubbed at his ever-growing headache.

Officers and forensic technologists buzzed around the scene like self-important flies. He tried to shut out the dull, officious chatter and think.

The solution was _there, _he could feel it. Just barely out of his reach. There was _something, _something staring him in the face, but he just couldn't see it.

He could solve this by himself, of course he could. He wouldn't – he didn't need to –

Lestrade stopped deceiving himself. He really did need to. He sighed resignedly and pulled out his phone.

_Locked-room murder. Seems pretty straightforward, but our team can't figure it out. Interested?_

Sherlock texted back within a minute.

_Your team couldn't figure their way out of paper bag. Hamish has been practicing. We're on our way. –SH_

Lestrade rubbed his hands over his face. That's what he was afraid of.

Soon enough, a cab pulled up to the scene, and the enigma of a six-year-old popped out. His strange half-blond, half-black curly hair clashed rather with a bright green jumper whose sleeves fell over his hands.

He frowned at the abundance of people and glanced uncertainly back at the car. John, emerging and shutting the door behind him, gave a small smile and nodded. Hamish turned, giving off an air of resolution, and approached Lestrade from the side.

"Hi," he said.

Lestrade smiled and extended a hand to ruffle Hamish's hair – then thought better of it, because the last time someone had tried to do that Hamish had bitten them. It seemed to be his primary method of defense against unwanted physical contact. Which was most physical contact.

"It's in there, right? Is Anderson here?" asked Hamish seriously.

"Yeah, sorry, I tried to keep him away from the actual crime scene, though."

Hamish turned wordlessly and trotted into the house, dodging nimbly around members of the Yard and trailed by his fathers. He received a few strange looks, but only from the newer officers.

John noticed the expression on his husband's face. "Why're you smirking like that?"

"Never thought that having a child would be a get-out-of-Anderson-free card."

John laughed briefly. "Remember Hamish's first solved crime? I've never seen Anderson so shocked as when he got shouted at in front of the entire force for stepping in the evidence. By a four-year-old."

"I have the video."

One of the aforementioned newer officers attempted to stop them at the door. "Hey, buddy," he said, crouching to Hamish's height, "I'm not sure how you got in here, but listen, this is police business. Top secret. Maybe you can wait a few years before joining the force, what do you say? Do you know where your mum is?"

Hamish, who as a general rule took no nonsense, folded his arms and glared. "My name is Hamish William Holmes-Watson."

The officer looked confused for less than a second, to his credit, before standing up and backing off. "Hey, sorry. Lestrade told me about you guys. By all means, go ahead."

Hamish entered the room, furniture trashed and askew and walls spattered slightly with blood, almost emotionlessly. His mouth crinkled a bit when he saw the body, but that was all. It was strange to see him like this – a far cry from at home, where he would set up elaborate crime scenes with stuffed animals and make confident contributions to Sherlock's deductive process while reading case notes over his shoulder.

He whipped out the tiny pocket magnifier – his favorite birthday present from the year before – and began to silently pore over every inch of the room he was tall enough to reach. Sherlock and John stood in the doorway, watching him work, ready to help if needed but not about to interpose their opinions on him unnecessarily. Hamish's feet moved easily, almost rhythmically around patches of floor and scattered furniture that instinct told him were important. It was almost dancing.

After a coda of jerky, half-started movements that meant his brain was getting in the way of his body, Hamish stopped short and went into Mind Castle position. When he emerged a few moments later, and after a hushed conference with his fathers, he finally turned to Lestrade and presented his theory.

Lestrade, for his part, had been absorbed in the motions of Hamish's crime-scene dance. It was so like Sherlock, but somehow so very different. He blinked and came back into himself.

Hamish's explanation was spot-on, at least according to Sherlock. It effortlessly connected the dots that Lestrade himself had had trouble connecting, and those he had no idea needed connected. Now that it had been explained to him – by a six-year-old! Not that he was complaining – it was crystal clear. He didn't know how he hadn't thought of it before. Which, of course, was what he knew would happen.

"Bloody brilliant," he couldn't help but murmur at the conclusion of Hamish's little speech.

Hamish grinned and ducked his head, looking away, his version of a heartfelt thank you.

Lestrade smiled as he watched them leave. If he was brutally honest with himself, there had been times when he had wondered if Sherlock and John were going to separate for good. Particularly after that business with Magnussen and Mary, he had sometimes doubted that their friendship could ever heal. But now…

A chance glimpse of his watch sent him hurrying on his way. Sherlock's brother had asked him out for coffee, and he was _not _going to be late for that.


	8. Age 7: Poltergeist

**A/N: Hey guys. This one's kinda long. Do you guys like longer chapters, or are shorter ones better? Tell me what you think and enjoy! Thanks! :)**

* * *

"You're _sure?" _asked John, for thousandth arbitrary time.

"Mrs. Hudson's visiting her sister, Mycroft's working, Lestrade's coming with us, Molly's traveling. Nothing for it," responded Sherlock, rather bleakly. "We'll have to hire a sitter."

"Oh my God," said John, putting his face in his hands.

Hours before, a new, scintillating case had burst out of the blue. The killer's work was untraceable, bizarre, and masterful in its flawless complexity. It was also brutal, gruesome, and chillingly targeted at officers of the law. They hadn't faced such a grisly and physically dangerous case since before Hamish came along. And so a consensus had been reached that Hamish would not investigate with them.

This had, of course, taken place before the necessity of a sitter became apparent. Had this conclusion been reached earlier, the results may have been wildly different.

"I heard the word sitter," announced Hamish, reading a book, eating a banana, and walking into the room at the same time. The banana floated loosely around his face, leaving his hands free for turning pages.

Sherlock winced. "Sorry."

Hamish lowered the book. "Really?"

"Her name's Miss Carlsberg, she's a member of Mrs. Hudson's bridge club."

Hamish blinked and quirked an eyebrow.

"She'll be here for approximately five hours, three of which you'll be awake for."

"What if I don't like her?"

A silent, apologetic (from John and Sherlock) concession was made that the likelihood of this not happening was slim to none.

"What if she's a kidnapper? Can I bite her?"

"If she's a kidnapper you can bite her," said John, wondering how this conversation felt so natural to him. "Or psyke her, if you want."

"If she's an idiot can I bite her?"

Sherlock opened his mouth. John put a hand over it without looking. _"No."_

"Darn."

"Hamish, I'm really sorry about this. Listen, if she's unreasonable, or evil, or your psyke's acting strange, _anything – _call us. You're a higher priority than this case. You know that."

"That's why I'm not on it, yes," said Hamish, and went up to his room to prepare.

"He's not angry?" said John to Sherlock, quietly. It was more of a statement.

"Annoyed, yes, frustrated with the world, yes, dreading the evening, yes, but not angry."

* * *

Miss Carlsberg was – no other word for it – pert. Heels touching and sensible-shoe-encased toes pointed out, featureless black pencil skirt, cerulean blouse with just a lick of fabric shy of too many ruffles. Severe haircut, pointed nose, wrinkles that could be construed as sophisticated, if one was so inclined. Age 56 – no, 57 – businesswoman, divorced 16 years ago, currently seeing a man she had met through a dating site. Brown eyes, controlled smile, too much lipstick in Umbridge pink. Wrinkled nose at experiments on the kitchen table. And the skull. Not an abnormal reaction. Unremarkable. Hamish would give her a chance, if she stayed out of his way.

"Good evening, Hamish. How do you do?" Unassuming smile, but no offered handshake. Hamish said nothing. Her chance didn't include the agony of conversation. She would really have to prove herself for that privilege.

The smile was more brittle now. Dad tried to make amends. "He doesn't talk, usually, around people he doesn't' know well. It's not personal, just him." A quick explanation of bedtime, supper, ground rules (no experiments in the bedroom or on the couch), and Hamish and Miss Carlsberg were alone in the flat. Miss Carlsberg perched on Dad's chair as if the silence was awkward. Which from her perspective, supposed Hamish, it was. He didn't care. He went on soundly thrashing Byron, the Gym Leader of Canalave City. If there was one thing he appreciated about school, it was his chance exposure to Pokémon there.

"So, Hamish. What are you studying in school?"

The voice jarred him unpleasantly out of Sinnoh. His Gabite Nero was thoroughly wiping the floor with Bastiodon. It was much more attractive than the outside world to watch. "Hnnnn."

"Excuse me? What was that?"

"Hnn."

Miss Carlsberg let out a tiny sigh that she probably thought was unnoticeable. "Hamish, I'm going to have to ask you to turn that thing off and speak with me."

A lengthy silence passed before Hamish answered with a short "Why?"

And that's where things started to go downhill.

"Because, good children speak when they are spoken to."

_Oh no. Please don't turn into a Victorian governess on me. _Hamish tested the waters with a simple, vaguely interested "Do they?"

Miss Carlsberg _bristled. _It was a common enough action, but she managed to personify the essence of the verb itself. Her whole body radiated a pert aura of bristliness.

"Why, yes, in fact, they do. They also make eye contact when speaking and respect their elders."

"Am I being disrespectful?" asked Hamish curiously. He had heard his teachers call other students that, but he had never experienced it for himself. And it wasn't an issue around Dad and Father – they _understood, _a better alternative to respect any day.

Miss Carlsberg didn't interpret it as curiosity. "By even asking that question, you are bordering rudeness."

Hamish shut the game to pause it and rolled over so he was facing her. He could get behind an honest discussion of differing ideals, particularly ones he had no prior knowledge of. "Why? Because I question? Because I speak my mind?"

"It is not the place of young children to question the wisdom of their betters, nor is it their place to prattle or speak when not told to! And get your feet off the couch!"

His face and body stiffened. He blinked at the force of the reprimand, feeling a shocked, hurt wet thickness behind his eyes and throat. He grabbed his game and went calmly to his room.

Supper was a strained affair. Miss Carlsberg fixed lasagna and peas. The lasagna was fine – in fact, he could have had more. He was hungry, his already fast metabolism increased by stress, and all the snacks in his room gone. But he had a strong aversion to peas. The flavor stuck wetly in his mouth, and the mushy texture was unbearable on his tongue and made him want to choke. He tried to explain this, but was branded as overreacting, picky and spoiled, and ordered to eat the peas before getting any more lasagna. As a result, his stomach was growling inconveniently. Dad had forgotten to inform her of his metabolic condition.

The wet thickening thickened. He could hardly breathe around the lump in his throat. This hadn't happened before; he'd always at least had allies. But if Father and Dad were in danger, a phone call at an inopportune time would be disastrous. Also, he doubted she would let him use the phone. His brain didn't know how to handle it. He wanted nothing more than to escape to his room for the remainder of the night.

But the tyranny continued.

(He knew that other children lived in conditions like this. He knew he could be seen as overreacting. He didn't care. The fact of the matter was that he, Hamish William Holmes-Watson, had never experienced this, and it was panicking him.)

After supper there was no Pokémon (he had been in the middle of a battle and the DS would probably lose power), no television (shouting at it was an evening ritual), no hiding upstairs (he was pretty sure his brain would explode), and most dreadful of all, _forced socialization _and _no books. _But things really came to a head at 6:48. An inauspicious time. It caught him by surprise.

"Alright, Hamish. Time for bed." The request (order?) came out of nowhere.

"What?!" He struggled to reconcile his brain to this novel, routine-skewing concept. Bedtime was 7:30. It had been for a long time. Everyone knew that. He couldn't just _change _it with no warning.

(He hadn't been kidnapped since he was five, but this was beginning to feel like an abduction.) "But – "

(Did that mean he was justified to use –)

And Miss Carlsberg lost her head. "No talking back! Children who stay up past seven invariably grow up to be stupid, whiny, backtalking ingrates!"

Hamish narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. _Well. That settles that, then._

The skull twitched on the mantelpiece.

"Well? I told you to go to bed!"

_She didn't hear. _The case notes under the skull rustled.

Miss Carlsberg's eyes flicked around. Everything was still.

While her back was still turned, Hamish allowed his face to melt into a devilish grin. Oh, this would be _fun._

* * *

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed, pushing past Lestrade's team into the abandoned apartment complex, gun cocked and loaded. Heart pounding, he kicked in door after door, because behind one of these doors was the killer, and behind the same door was Sherlock. Tied to a chair. Unconscious. At least, on the video.

_"John!" _he heard, and then a muffled thump and cry of pain, and rage swelled red in his vision. He located the source of the sound and gave the door a hearty kick – maybe the killer would be standing less than eight feet away from the threshold – but no such luck. Instead, he stood safely in the middle of the room, positioned over Sherlock, who was still bound to the chair. The fear shimmering in Sherlock's eyes mirrored the feral glint of the knife pressed to his throat.

John didn't think, didn't blink, didn't miss a beat as he fired into the murderer's shoulder, crossed the room and pistol-whipped him across the head hard enough to render him unconscious. He tipped Sherlock's face up, searching for injuries, but other than a slight trickle of blood dripping from his nose he seemed fine. It never hurt to ask, though. "You okay?"

"Fide, Johd." But as soon as his bonds were cut away Sherlock pulled John into a hug, gripping him hard enough to hurt and breathing deeply into his neck.

"I was worried," John breathed into his ear. "When you went missing, I was so worried. I love you."

Sherlock shifted a hand to cup the back of John's neck and kissed him, long and deep. They only broke apart when a cell phone rang noisily from somewhere in the room.

"Is that…?" John gestured to the unconscious criminal. It did seem to be coming from his vicinity.

"Id's probably be. He took bine, before I woke ub." Sherlock fished his mobile out of one of the murderer's pockets. "Sherlock Holbes-Wadson."

"Your flat is _possessed!" _shrilled Miss Carlsberg; loud enough that John could hear it clearly from where he stood. Sherlock winced and held the phone away from his ear. There was muffled crashing in the background, though that could have been Lestrade's team bumbling their way through the halls.

Miss Carlsberg continued screeching with the force of a banshee, babbling about flying skulls and rustling paper and unexplained crashes and devil-children. John's eyebrows got progressively higher after each hysterical accusation, plummeting abruptly at the last one.

"Biss Carlsberg – " Sherlock attempted (ineffectually, it must be said) to placate the sitter through the phone. "Biss Carlsberg, if you could – "

"Here," said John, holding out a hand, and Sherlock passed him the phone with an air of relief. He put it a few inches away from his ear. "Listen, Miss Carlsberg, we'll be home soon, so if you could hang on until then, I'm sure there's a rational explanation for this – "

"This is Hamish. I've stolen the phone and I'm hiding in my room with the door half open." The voice was cross and slightly shaky. "You owe me _apologies."_


End file.
